


The Riddles

by MoonSilverSprite



Series: Human Monsters [1]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Mind Games, Mystery, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Nudity, Past, Photographs, Psychological Trauma, Riddles, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-07 13:08:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20976401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonSilverSprite/pseuds/MoonSilverSprite
Summary: Emily receives a wooden box with a strange lock that was delivered to Quantico, along with five poetic riddles detailing clues on how to open it. When the team play the Unsub's cruel, unsettling game, they will wish they had never opened the box. Because when they do, it will change their past forever.





	1. Chapter 1

**March 15th 2012**  
**5.57am**

_The room was almost completely dark. She stirred slightly as she began to wake. She kicked out at the mattress beneath her. Where was her duvet? She couldn’t feel one._

_Her wrists hurt like anything. She tried to move them apart but she found that she wasn’t able to. A slight panic rose and her eyelids fluttered rapidly._

_Before she could even muster the strength to scream, she felt someone lifting her head up. “Please don’t be scared, Miss Jareau,” she heard a child’s voice tell her. A pillow was placed underneath her head and then a small figure pulled her hands towards them before she felt something cold enter her arm._

__

JJ woke up.

She’d had that dream for years. It was always the same one every time. An almost dark room, helpless and possibly bound on a mattress. A child talking to her, telling her that she shouldn’t be scared.

JJ wondered if perhaps this was a combination of the most stressful cases they had with the guilt of being unsuccessful in saving victims. The dreams had started after the murders by ten-year-old Jeffrey Charles, after all.

She got up out of bed and rubbed her eye with her wrist as she made her way downstairs to get breakfast.

“What’s on the agenda today?” Emily asked as she made her way over to the desks.

“Nothing yet,” Morgan answered.

“Don’t tempt fate,” Emily gave a small smile as she placed her bag down on the ground, “What’s that?”

A small wooden box sat inside a plastic envelope on top of her desk. It was about the same size as an average book. There were no carvings or patterns and there was a five-digit lock on the front on a metal plate. It seemed perfectly ordinary to her.

Reid looked over. “That was for you at the front desk. We don’t know what’s inside, but an x-ray scan and various other tests have ruled out anything potentially dangerous.”

“And it’s just sitting on my desk?” Emily asked wearily.

Reid swiveled from side to side from his chair. “Nothing harmful could be found. They even had a sniffer dog examine it.”

“So this mysterious box on my desk has dog hairs on?” she asked, not amused.

She thought that she might as well start looking at the lock. Unless a case came up, and they didn’t have one every day, she needed something to pass the time.

The lock was slightly complicated; a normal five-digit code on the front. But there were no clues, no hints on how to open this.

“Any instructions come with the box?” she asked.

Reid shook his head. “Only message was that it was for you. That you would understand.”

Emily shrugged. “I don’t recognize the box.”

All the same, she felt intrigued. She knew the chances that it may be from someone not-so-savory were high (Reid would probably give her the right statistics, but she wasn’t about to ask him right now), but Emily had always been a girl that liked puzzles.

So she took the time to think about why it ended up on her desk.

Soon she would wish she had never been given the challenge.

Emily received the envelope at noon.

Inside was one plain piece of paper, written on a typewriter. There was a faint scent when she opened it; roses? But she had a look at what was written anyway,

Inside is what you seek,  
but be wary of what you speak.  
My eyes and ears are everywhere.  
Call your team (if you dare).  
I give eight and forty hours, my dear,  
but this will be not all you fear.  
Add the numbers to reach the lock.  
Be quick! Tick, tock!  
As I am a gentleman, I shall give you the first clue.  
This is, my dear, the way I will speak to you.  
Theater, I believe, is where we start.  
Indeed, linked with a gift from the heart.  
How old was he when they met?  
But Romeo could not die for Juliet.  
He loved her from afar, lied to be next to her.  
The years they had together makes my heart stir.  
To venge his lady, he let his rage take him;  
he heard her death, slay’d the dragon so grim.  
If you are lost, do not fret,  
The answer is right here: 

The poem stopped suddenly. But that was the least unnerving thing about this.

According to the clue, Emily had four more poems left. Someone was watching them.

Her mind whirred about in a daze. If these were clues, presumably sent by an Unsub, this could mean that they were playing a game. Perhaps someone was being held hostage, or this was a warning from a terrorist.

Either way, Emily was playing the wicked game.

She wondered about asking the others for help. But the poem had said that she shouldn’t. Or was it? If someone came across her and happened to notice the poem, would she be blamed for that?

Emily had no idea. But what she did know was that someone was playing with her mind and she had to work out what the poem was about. She could already see that the Unsub’s mind was stuck in a previous time – the old-fashioned style of some of the words; ‘eight and forty’ instead of forty-eight. There was also the mention of the theater and the scent of roses. Clearly this man – and it was probably a man, they had even said so – was acting as if he were from an older time.

After a while of examining the letter, Emily came to the conclusion that if she could work out the final word of the poem then she might understand what the clue was.

And said clue would lead to a number that was the first digit of the lock.

She tried to think back to ninth-grade English class, when they had studied _Romeo and Juliet_. She had no inkling of where ‘dragon’ could have come from. Then she decided that it wasn’t that play in particular, but instead a reference to young lovers.

She knew she had no hope of managing to find the answer alone. So she went to the desks and waited for someone to come along.

Rossi eventually did, just after lunch. “Emily?” he asked as he saw her leaning on the table, “Is something wrong?”

“Oh,” she pulled her hair behind her ears, “I’m trying to work out this poem. It was sent to me earlier.”

“I thought you received a box,” Rossi asked her.

She nodded. “I did. But this poem – this poem has a clue to the first digit. But I can’t crack this.”

“I’ll get the kid,” Rossi murmured, “You think this might be from an Unsub?”

“That’s my theory,” Emily sighed, “but we don’t know how deadly he is. Don’t worry; the letter’s perfectly safe. Smelt of roses, actually.”

“Roses?”

“I believe he’s trying to re-enact a fantasy. The smell of roses, the way he speaks, even the use of a typewriter instead of a computer. But whether or not he’s trying to grab our attention, the answer to whatever he’s planning or planned is inside the box.”

Rossi accepted this, walking out.

Emily just hoped that she’d find the answer before something went dreadfully wrong.

Five minutes later Reid had written the poem up on the board, the paper itself stuck at the side. As soon as he finished he stood up and tilted his head.

Rossi and Emily sat at a table, while Hotch stood next to them, hands in his pockets, wearing his usual frown. The others were still on their lunch break.

“And this paper came at noon today?” Hotch asked Emily while still staring at the board.

Emily replied, “Yes. It was checked beforehand.”

“’_Lied to be next to her_’,” Reid mumbled, “not ‘_lain_’. I don’t think he meant to say ‘they lay next to each other’, but rather ‘he fibbed so she would like him’. The Unsub doesn’t have any other grammatical errors, so this makes sense.”

“Of course the whole thing doesn’t make sense anyway,” Emily sighed, sitting up straight in her chair, “I don’t think it refers to the actual Romeo and Juliet, obviously, but it seems to indicate ‘he’ – whoever ‘he’ is – lived while ‘she’ didn’t.”

“And they likely weren’t teenagers when she did die,” Rossi pointed out, “It says they had years together.”

“But they met as children,” Hotch focused on the words written in red felt pen.

“I think if we find the final word of the poem, we’ll know who he’s referring to,” Emily reiterated her previous theory, “something that rhymes with ‘fret’.”

“Or _someone_,” Reid was still examining the poem on the paper, “This is addressed to Emily personally.” Reid closed his eyes and started to skim through all possible names that might rhyme with ‘fret’.

Emily shrugged, unable to think of any single possibility.

“It would have to be linked to avenging love,” Rossi thought aloud, “slaying the dragon that killed the lady. The age he was when they met could be the first number we need to unlock the box. A double digit could be added together to make a single digit.”

Emily glanced at the box, inches in front of her on the table. “Heard the death, but didn’t see her die.”

Reid almost dropped the pen in shock as his eyes widened and a chill ran down his spine. He mumbled a name as he twisted the pen in his fingers.

“Sorry, Reid?” Hotch asked, “What was that?”

“George Foyet.”

Reid turned about to face them as the realization flooded through them. “Y-You heard Haley’s death through the phone…and you killed him. A-And you met…”

The puzzles slotted together in Hotch’s mind. “Haley and I met when she was in the production of _Pirates of Penzance_,” he went pale as he spoke, “I was seventeen. Seven and one make eight. The first number’s eight.”

All he could think of was that this Unsub was cruelly mocking them, using their own experiences as clues to unlock who knew what inside. “We need to get the rest of the team,” he started to briskly walk out of the room, “See if there are any more letters, Emily.”

Emily had already entered the first number into the lock. Hearing a small click, she realized she had the right digit. Getting up and going to the mail-room, she found four more envelopes with her name printed on.

This was going to be traumatizing, she knew that already.

But not as traumatizing as what she would find inside.


	2. Chapter 2

**March 15th 2012**  
**2.26pm**

Everyone was sat down in the bullpen, the box in the center of the table. The door was shut and three of the envelopes remained unopened. Since they’d already been placed in the mail slot, it was safe to assume that all of the necessary tests had been done.

“Why would someone send a bunch of riddles?” JJ asked after Reid had finished looking through the second poem, taken from a heather-scented envelope.

“Remember the Fisher King?” Hotch asked, standing behind his chair and digging his fingers in. All he could think of was George Foyet. The fact that the Unsub was aware of all of this suggested that they were an employee at Quantico.

They couldn’t trust anyone.

Emily nodded, eyes still fixed on the box. “What’s the next poem, Reid?” she asked as he began writing it on the board, this time in green pen.

Duck, duck, no goose!  
For my riddle, no excuse.  
Tiny little facts concealed behind  
those ugly eyeballs so wide.  
Here’s an offer she can’t refuse;  
my little mice are so amused.  
Mommy and Daddy, threads of life cut.  
Oh too soon, sneaky little rut.  
If t’were a crime, she would hang.  
Her life, like theirs, out with a bang.  
But I am not judge, jury nor executioner.  
You, my dear, are the resolutioner.  
Fun and games have just begun;  
how long was she there before she was done?  
The hours fly by; it is not too late  
to abandon this and change your fate.

“_Threads of life cut_,” Reid turned around as he finished, “Mice probably means that we’re similar to lab rats in an experiment. The experiment that he’s carrying out; toying with our minds.”

“Mommy and Daddy,” Garcia muttered in a quiet voice, “If –“ she sighed, “If the first poem refers to Hotch, this one must mean me.”

She looked around the room, fumbling with her fingers, stressed. “Penelope means ‘duck’. They’re saying – that if my sneaking out after curfew was a crime, then I would be punished…”

“Baby girl,” Morgan reached across and held her hand as she used the other one to wipe tears from her eye, “We need to concentrate on this now. We can’t let him get to us.”

“I know, I know,” Garcia flapped her hands around, “But he’s an absolute jerk.”

Reid’s eyes were skimming over the poem, trying to work out if there was anything that stood out in particular. He knew that this poem was mocking Garcia and her dead parents, but he couldn’t see any suggestions.

Then he read the penultimate couplet.

“’_Fun and games have just begun, how long was she there before she had done?_’ Could that refer to an actual game that you played, Garcia?”

All eyes were on the technical analyst as she mumbled, “Well, in the last couple of days – we didn’t really do anything, sir –“ she looked over at Hotch.

Memories of the Fisher King floated back to him and he sighed, “You were playing video games on company property again, weren’t you?”

She shook her head. “No, no sir. I – went home early.”

Hotch closed his eyes and groaned inwardly. He would have to reprimand her for this, but for now they had to concentrate on the Unsub’s harsh poem.

“How long were you playing?” Morgan asked her.

Garcia thought for a moment. “Seven hours over the weekend.” Then she paused, as Emily turned the dial to place the number in. “Does that mean he’s spied on my internet history?”

“He’s certainly smart,” Rossi said as there was a click from the box, signifying that this was indeed the correct number, “He knows our history, he’s seen the files. He’s either a computer whiz or has his fingers in a lot of pies.”

“He’s certainly smart enough,” Morgan picked up a third envelope and opened it, the scent of lilac escaping from within, “Maybe it ties in with the idealism. He sees himself as better, more educated, maybe.”

He then looked at the paper in his hands. After a few seconds, he looked slightly annoyed. His lips moved as he read the words to himself. As Reid came up behind him, Morgan finished the poem and held it over his shoulder, not even looking at his teammate.

Reid read the poem out loud as he made his way to the board.

Shiny, shiny head so bright  
one look at Morgan and you see the light.  
But this is not so much about that  
as I need to deliver this fact.  
One Unsub walked her crowded streets  
and trapped his victims in their sheets.  
Geography is the subject now  
combined with history (with the cow).  
But when all eyes set upon her,  
a man like me took those from yonder.  
His name is ironic, yet detailed within.  
Your friend’s city is the place they killed wherein.  
The year of death is vital here,  
am I making this quite clear?

Once Reid had gotten to the last word, Morgan snorted. “The Unsub’s mocking me this time. He’s clearly having fun.”

JJ was thinking as Reid wrote the poem on the board with blue felt tip.

“He uses the word ‘Unsub’, as if he’s from the FBI itself. The public, news media, criminal courts all use ‘criminal’ or ‘bad guy’ or ‘killer’. He might be trying to say he’s one of us.”

“But he mentions another killer,” Hotch muttered, “The year of death could indicate that not only is this someone who is dead, but someone we know.”

“The city must be Chicago,” Emily looked around the group, “_Your friend’s city_’; Morgan’s from Chicago.”

“Mrs O’Leary’s cow was accused of knocking over a lamp and starting the Great Fire of Chicago in the year 1876,” Reid murmured, still staring at the board, so close that his nose almost touched it, “Theater, geography, history. These are all school subjects. Fun and games might refer to recess. Maybe our Unsub is a teacher or a custodian.”

“Or is closely connected to the school curriculum or education itself,” Rossi raised his voice, “It fits with the idea that he is highly educated or thinks himself as being better than other people.”

“Scottish serial killer Peter Tobin liked to pretend to his victims that he was better than them. For instance, one of his victims was hitchhiking home from a concert. The witness says that Tobin said he preferred folk music to modern pop music.” Reid was fiddling with the felt tip in his fingers, getting the ends of them stained blue.

“Well, the letter insults me,” Morgan grumbled, “He has a very high opinion. Mocking Garcia, could be because of –“

“ – my criminal record,” Garcia sighed, her hands out in front of her, clawing away at the polished wood, “And if he values mental intellect above physical stature, he could be insulting Morgan for being a ‘jock’.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow in discontent. He wasn’t just dumb muscle; he was a useful member of the team in other cases.

“This smells of bully target,” JJ remarked, “He may have been a victim of bullying, whether at school or at home.”

“School is more likely,” Hotch argued, “But he might have been brought up with manners.” He pointed at some of the lines. “He calls Emily ‘my dear’. He scented the letters. He’s reasonably more sympathetic with – me. I killed George Foyet but he doesn’t seem to want me punished.”

“I wonder what he’d say about me,” Reid mumbled.

“That reminds me,” JJ pointed at the envelopes, then at the board, “There are five envelopes but seven of us. If you exclude Emily for being the recipient, that means he’s left one of us out.”

“His possible target?” Emily gulped, “If he isn’t after me.”

There was a horrid silence as they contemplated this. Emily folded her arms in front of her chest and said, “I don’t know if I can go home tonight.”

“We can sort that out when the time comes,” Hotch tried to comfort her but wasn’t successful, “For now we should try and decipher the person the Unsub is talking about.”

“Chicago murderers,” Morgan’s eyes glazed over as he concentrated, “’_trapped in their sheets_’ – could be breaking and entering?”

“And someone who is dead,” Rossi interrupted, “with an ironic name.”

“Ironic how?” JJ asked, “Maybe if they were named ‘waters’ or something and their victims drowned?”

“Stalked the victims and attacked in their bedrooms…” Hotch tried to think of any case they had worked on that involved such a thing. But although they had many, he couldn’t narrow down any one case in Chicago, or even loosely linked to the Windy City. He turned to Garcia. “Look up our previous cases concerning Chicago, ones that involve breaking and entering or stalking.”

“On it,” Garcia left the room to go to her computer, while Emily got up as well.

While she said she needed the bathroom, she was actually going to check her phone for anonymous messages. Finding none, she told herself this didn’t matter; he was sending coded messages in poems. This would divert from his modus operandi.

**4.40pm**

In the computer room, Garcia looked through the names of Unsubs based in Chicago over the last thirty years. She knew that none of them had worked here that long, but she thought perhaps the first crime may have happened that long ago.

No ironic names. The closest she got was a man named Shepherd that had stabbed a farmer in 1996. Garcia sighed, resting her forehead in her hands.

It was definitely something to do with Chicago. She looked up every case from Chicago, just in case.

Absolutely nil.

Then she murmured to herself, “An Unsub breaking into their homes…”

Her eyes widened and she could have slapped herself for being so stupid. “Oh, Penelope, you _dimwit_!” She turned her earpiece on, adrenaline racing through.

Inside the bullpen, the team were racking their brains. Reid had brought another board in to scribble on and it was also covered in marks. As were Reid’s hands.

Hotch picked up the phone when it rang. “You’re on speaker, Garcia.”

“It’s H. H. Holmes!” she squealed loudly, her fingers flying as she looked up the account online, “’_trapped them in their sheets_’ was a reference to him gassing his victims in their hotel rooms – likely in their beds. ‘_All eyes set upon her_’ could refer to peeping on his female victims, or maybe even the fact that Chicago was hosting the 1893 World’s Fair, when all eyes would be watching. He died in –“

“1896.” Reid answered at the same time as her. “The third number is 6.”

Emily tested this number in the lock and heard it click for the third time as the insides turned.

“Two to go,” Rossi muttered, “Thanks Garcia.”

When the call ended, he opened the fourth letter. “Lilies,” he sniffed the page as he brought it out, “the flower associated with funerals.”

“I hope that isn’t a sign.” Morgan shuddered.

Rossi read out the poem. This one was shorter than the others, but just as chilling. The poem sounded oddly soothing when combined with Rossi’s voice.

Mommy, mommy, oh so fair  
with your big, bright eyes and flaxen hair.  
Never one to mess with baddies.  
Keep him safe at home with Daddy.  
What keeps butterflies stay fresh inside?  
Science this time for you to abide.  
How many did you gather, I wonder?  
Round it together and find the answer asunder.

The first line had made JJ recoil. By the second couplet, she went into a silent panic. By the time Rossi had finished speaking JJ had curled her fist up and pressed it against her lips.

“JJ?” Emily asked, trying to be as gentle as possible, “Do you need time –“

“Yes.” JJ stood up and left the room, as Reid wrote down the poem in tiny writing on the board in green pen.

After a while, Emily spoke again. “Considering that – the Unsub knows our internet history, it’s not – too much of a stretch that he would know about our home life.”

“I think he might be referring to the butterfly collection she had as a girl,” Hotch licked his lip in concentration, trying not to think about this man spying on them, spying on Jack, maybe, “He’s being polite again despite his way of putting it across.”

“The butterflies were mentioned with the Fisher King quest,” Reid finished writing the poem on the board, “That piece of information would have been in our records. But how would they know the exact number of butterflies she kept? I’m not sure even _JJ_ knows.”

The fact that science was mentioned, another school subject, lingered in his labyrinth mind. Except that no-one needed to think about that when JJ was clearly upset.

Outside, the sender sat in the passenger seat of the car as his fellow criminal exited through the gate, placing his ID card inside his pockets as he did so.

The passenger looked up, closing his book (_Dracula_, a fifteenth birthday present from his partner in crime) and pulling his seat-belt.

The older man entered and asked, “Ready for another one tonight?”

“I’m not sure,” the younger one shrugged, “We’ve sent the photos. Don’t we have time to do anything else today?”

His partner chortled. “If you hadn’t spent all that time choosing perfumes then we’d have left the store a lot sooner. Honestly, sometimes I think I raised a fairy.”

The key was placed in the ignition and the car started driving away. He held the book in his hands as he looked at his bookmark sticking it, of five flowers held together with green cloth.

In JJ’s wardrobe at home, Will was looking through her old clothes, trying to see if he could find that gold bangle she wanted to wear for tomorrow night’s dinner. She’d said she left it in her olive trousers, but he hadn’t found it so far and had resorted to her old clothes at the back.

Pulling her green dressing gown out, he squinted as he had a look at the bottom. A piece of fabric had been cut from the bottom. It had jagged edges, as if cut by a child. Inside the pocket he found five dried flower petals and stems; a rose petal, a lily petal and sprigs of heather, lilac and lavender.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Considering poetry is not my strong point, I believe I did well, mainly with the use of a rhyming dictionary.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you wonder how a conscious mind could think this up, it didn't. This story came to me in a dream. I have no clue what I was drinking either.
> 
> If you have played the video game _Life is Strange_, then some of the elements will be familiar. Which is bizarre, since I hadn't seen the game in two weeks before I dreamt this story up.

**March 16th 2012**  
**9.37am**

Emily sat at the table in the bullpen. JJ said that she would call her mother and ask to count the butterflies in her childhood collection.

But that wasn’t what was bothering Emily. What gnawed away at her was how this had completed invaded their privacy.

Emily pulled the final envelope towards her from where it sat in the middle of the table, a number 5 drawn on in children’s gel pen. Despite this, it was done in cursive. More suggestions about etiquette filled Emily’s mind.

What did the Unsub want with them? Namely, what did he want with her? Why were the poems and box sent to her and her alone? A hundred ideas raced through her mind, none of which were pleasant.

Pulling open the final envelope as Hotch and Rossi entered the room, she read it aloud.

Now onto the young virgin,  
the clues are now merging.  
My, my, he’s a tricky one to fool.  
But I will be swift; I will not be cruel.  
If music be the food of love, that concerto was burnt spaghetti.  
Remember? On Main Street, you thought that Unsub was simply petty.  
I gather you have heard of the theremin.  
(I listened to one when I lacked my carotene)  
That is just one of the clues  
on this paper I give to you.  
Add the numerals together with their calendar,  
to see within the mind of your challenger.  
Day, month, year to make the last digit.  
Turn my cogs and turn the widgets.  
When you have done this the lock shall open;  
your fates are sealed, as I have spoken.  
If you wonder why I did skip the old one,  
I am afraid I do not find him so fun.

As soon as Emily finished, Rossi sighed. “Charming,” he mumbled, “I’m boring, am I?”

Emily didn’t have an answer. Hotch looked at the poem in her hands, his brow furrowed as always.

“’_Unsub was petty_’. The case we had just after the Christmas before last – when you were in hiding, Emily – had a failed conductor stabbing people at the concert hall on Main Street.”

Rossi nodded in agreement. “Reid said that the man was a narcissist. Is this one too, I wonder?”

“He certainly seems a little narcissistic,” Hotch wrote the poem on the board, “This one’s directed at Reid. He seems conflicted on his opinion – that is, if he isn’t mocking his virginity.”

“He’s done what?” All three heads turned and saw Spencer at the door. He then looked at the poem on the board.

Almost instantly his frustration melted away and he pointed to the word ‘theremin’. “That’s an unusual musical instrument. It was invented in 1920 by Russian Leon Theremin. It’s a fascinating instrument really; you just wave your arms in front of two antennas.”

Hotch had lost count of how many times Reid had detailed things to him without blinking. Then he asked the younger agent, “What year did Theremin die?”

“1993,” Reid’s eyes glazed over as he concentrated, “I’ll have to check the exact date of death. The Russians used a different calendar.”

“And carotene?” Emily piped up.

Reid turned around. “It’s used for people who lack Vitamin A. The name itself comes from ‘carrot’. Maybe our Unsub has a Vitamin A deficiency.”

“Or maybe he just needed something to rhyme with ‘theremin’.” Rossi suggested.

“We can add music to the list of school subjects he included,” Hotch placed his hands in his pockets, “Any word from JJ?”

Emily shook her head. “She’s coming in later. Then we’ll be able to open the box,” she sighed, stretching her arms out on the table, “I just can’t help but feel some poor soul’s life is probably on the line.”

“He said forty-eight hours. That was at noon yesterday.” Hotch concentrated, “We may have time.”

But they didn’t even know what they were fighting to find. And that was the scariest factor in all this.

JJ had had another nightmare, another frequent one. In this particular nightmare, she was caught in the duvet, or at least, she thought it was the duvet. It felt like the duvet between her fingers. She was slowly being bumped around, as if she were lying on the floor of a van. She could definitely hear an engine running.

Then she would hear a gruff, older voice grumble, “She’s getting up; add the dose!” Then a few seconds later she would feel a small, cold hand on her shoulder and a needle poke her neck ever so softly.

She would hear a young, presumably male, voice whisper to her as the hand on her shoulder cradled her cheek.

“Please don’t fight this, Miss Jareau.”

The two nightmares were entwined and she always wondered where the boy’s voice came from. She believed it was connected to her worry about child victims, about kidnapping victims.

But it was terrifying in any case.

As she entered the bullpen to see the rest of the team there, she took the last chair and without even saying hello, dived right into the riddle.

“I collected fourteen butterflies. One and four are five.”

“JJ, are you okay?” Garcia asked her.

JJ turned to her friend. “I – I really don’t know. It’s – a blur, frankly. I told Will I wasn’t going out that night and I snapped at him.” She pulled a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she thought about how the Unsub had been spying on them. “Any news?”

Emily related all she had learnt and Garcia left the room to look up Leon Theremin.

Hotch picked up the envelope and smelt the fragrance. This one was lavender. Their Unsub definitely had high standards.

He went over the Unsub’s private opinions in his mind. According to the Unsub, Garcia and Morgan were mocked for being ‘criminal’ or ‘just muscle’, even though Hotch knew in his heart that these were far from the truth.

The Unsub saw JJ and Emily as ‘respectable ladies’. Hotch was sure that the first couplet in the fourth poem wasn’t meant to intentionally frighten JJ. The Madonna-Whore complex came to mind – namely that men with said complex saw women as either fragile, innocent beings that had to be protected from evil at all times and were the perfect wife or mother, or that they were promiscuous honey traps that lured men from salvation. JJ was a kind, pretty wife and mother whereas while Garcia was far from a ‘whore’, she had been a rebel in her youth. Emily, as a career woman who had pretended to be Ian Doyle’s girlfriend to gain his trust, was somewhere in the middle, but it was possible that the Unsub believed – rightfully – that this was part of an act to save others. It was a rather interesting mindset, Hotch told himself.

Now onto how the Unsub felt about other men. The instant verbal abuse towards Morgan suggested that this was from the sort of person who would often have to be defensive on a regular basis, whether physical towards himself or others or pleading with someone to stop hurting them. This sort of person feared the physically strong. More thoughts of a regularly bullied nerd flooded inside his brain.

The Unsub did not say if he liked Hotch or not, but the fact that he had killed Foyet in revenge for Haley was seen as justified in the Unsub’s view. He certainly appeared to retain the fairy tale view of a gallant knight protecting a lady since childhood.

The Unsub also did not seem to have any particular view on Rossi. He neither liked or disliked him. Or perhaps he had tried to read Rossi’s books and found them too tiring. In any case, he enjoyed playing with the others too much.

But with Reid, the Unsub seemed to admire him. The second couplet – ‘_he’s a tricky one to fool_’ – gave an idea relating to admiration, whether positively or negatively. The fifth poem would normally be the trickiest for anyone, but Reid knew instantly what they meant by ‘theremin’, ‘carotene’ and ‘their calendar’. Hotch wondered what the ‘virgin’ comment was for. Perhaps the Unsub also saw Reid as somebody that needing saving from bad guys. Despite the situation, Hotch found himself smiling.

“Hotch,” Rossi’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts, “Garcia’s calling.”

He turned the phone on. “You’re on speaker, Garcia.”

“The date Leon Theremin died by the old calendar is 3rd November 1993,” Garcia voice came from the phone, “The number is nine.”

“Thank you, Garcia,” Hotch told her as he ended the call and turned to his team, “I think we should create a profile.”

“Are you sure, Hotch?” Morgan asked as Emily turned the lock for the fourth and fifth digits. “This is a bit different from our usual cases.”

“Well we need to do something,” Hotch glanced around at his team, “But we keep this to ourselves. If this Unsub has information about us, he could be anyone.”

**11.38am**

After going for a walk around the grounds, giving a fake smile to anyone who stopped her, Emily came back to the bullpen to have another look at the box. Although she had heard the fifth digit slot into place, she hadn’t dared open it.

It wasn’t because she was scared that something would come out and poison her. All of the tests had been done. No, it was the anxiety of not knowing what could be inside.

But, she told herself, as Reid once reminded her with a Lovecraft quote, the greatest and oldest fear is of the unknown and she was just dragging this whole thing out if she didn’t look inside.

Everyone else had come back in before Emily silently lifted the lid. They watched without a word, sat around the table, all eyes on her reaction.

As soon as she did see, she gave a little squeal of terror and pushed back, a hand over her mouth. “What is it?” Hotch asked, coming up beside her.

Then he saw. Inside sat a stack of Polaroid photographs. But it was what was featured in the top photograph that unnerved him. The picture was a close-up of Emily, fast asleep, on top of a mattress in a dingy cellar. There was duct tape wound tightly around her wrists, hanging down in front of her. To top it off, Emily was in her pajama top, but not the bottoms.

“Emily,” Hotch tried to reassure her as the others crowded around for a closer look, “do you –“

“I have never done anything like that!” Emily gasped, “I – I tore those pajamas six months ago. But it – the tear isn’t there.” She had gotten up from her chair and was standing against the wall, her face pale.

Hotch picked up the picture to take a closer look, but then saw the contents of the next one. This one was of him, also in his pajamas, tape around his wrists and ankles. He also seemed barely awake in this picture.

Garcia, who was now holding the box up, trembled. “Oh, my word –“ she took a handful of photos out, dropping the box onto the floor. Photos scattered everywhere, some of them face up.

Reid knelt down and looked at five in front of him. These were pictures of the team, all of them in various states of awareness, in both their pajamas and their day clothes. He froze when he saw one of himself, supposedly fast asleep on the edge of the mattress, hands and ankles tied with gaffer tape. “This was taken years ago,” he tried to hide the panic in his voice but he still sounded shocked, “My hair – look at it.”

The photos had indeed been taken over a period of some years. Garcia’s varied hairstyles and weight, JJ and Reid’s haircuts, there was even a couple of photos of Elle Greenway and one of Ashley Seaver.

“How could someone do this?” Emily finally asked the question on everyone’s minds.

But no-one could answer.

A few miles away inside the very room where the photos had been taken, a young man sat on the mattress as he leafed through one of David Rossi's books. He knew that he had sent the box off to the team - his partner told him to - and he guessed they might have opened it by now. He had seen these agents many times, although none of them had known it.

His partner would drive. Always did, since the whole operation had started before the boy could even reach the pedal, let alone by able to drive. He had drummed into his young apprentice's head that he had to be careful. To not damage the agents or they would notice when they woke. The boy himself liked to brush their hair before the man took any photos. When the boy had been young he would leave the room if the 'model' was naked. His partner did have some kindness.

He had copied his partner's etiquette and his importance towards academic studies. He didn't copy his partner's narcissism or his misogyny, but he was still careful towards the females in particular.

Emily, beautiful Emily, the first woman he had seen without any clothes on. Not that he could brag to anyone. And Jennifer Jareau, the mommy he yearned for. He had given her one of his posies, inside of her dressing gown. He had the other with him, to remind him of his promise.

And now he would have to keep his other promise.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to reiterate, I do not think Garcia is a whore. She was mainly made the 'whore' by default. She reminds me of my sister, even.
> 
> The Madonna-Whore complex is an outdated, discriminating view towards women and I used it to show how unbalanced the Unsub is. A good example of this complex in fiction would be _Hunchback of Notre Dame_, as Quasimodo sees Esmeralda as someone to be protected since she was the first person to show him any kindness. Frollo sees Esmeralda as wicked because he doesn't understand why she gave him an erection (to be honest, nobody did back then). In the Disney film, Esmeralda ends up with Phoebus because he was the only character to see her as something in-between, see her as a person and not an object.
> 
> (Strangely enough, when I had finished this particular chapter, I saw _Hunchback_ parallels with the two Unsubs.)
> 
> Despite the uncomfortable subject matter, I hope you still enjoy reading this story.

**March 16th 2012**  
**1.08pm**

Within an hour, the team had managed to count the photos and create a rough chronological order. The pictures were all pinned up on the walls around the bullpen. There were just so many of them. Hotch had pulled the blinds shut, since not only was he a little worried that the Unsub was watching them but the photographs were embarrassing.

After counting, it was discovered that twenty-seven were of Emily, twenty-four were of JJ, fifteen were of Hotch, fourteen were of Garcia, seven were of Morgan, eighteen were of Reid, one was of Rossi, three were of Elle and one of Seaver. All of them had the team members mostly asleep. In most of Emily, JJ and Garcia’s pictures, their hands weren’t tied and their ankles were never tied. A few of the pictures featured the team member blindfolded and a soft blanket partially thrown over them. In at least a third of the pictures the subject was naked.

“This is just – disgusting,” JJ’s tongue finally found a word to describe the situation, “How could somebody do this on multiple occasions and we never knew?”

“Some of them look as if they were taken on the same date,” Reid pointed out, wringing his hands as he told them, “Just look at the clothing and the way the hands are positioned.”

“Thank you, Reid,” Hotch tried to remain stoic but his heart was beating in his ears. If these photos had been taken over years then that meant that someone had snuck into his house when Haley was alive. The Unsub had gone into Hotch’s house with his wife and young son present.

“There seem to be gaps,” he said after a while, “for instance, none of them are from when JJ was pregnant, or at least appeared pregnant.”

“I wonder why there aren’t any of Gideon,” Morgan asked after a while, “There’s a few of Elle.”

“Maybe the Unsub didn’t have time before Gideon left the BAU,” Hotch responded, “But the fact remains that the same person or persons have been successful in repeatedly drugging and kidnapping us without our awareness.”

“I don’t mean to complain,” Rossi folded his arms, “but why is there only one of me?”

Garcia answered in a quiet voice. “If I may say so, sir, there seems to be a – _sexual_ element to these pictures. Maybe it’s because – please don’t take this the wrong way.” Her eyes danced around and she blushed as she saw everyone looking at her.

Hotch agreed silently that this did make sense. The female agents were all young and considered attractive. Reid didn’t seem to notice whenever women threw themselves at him, mostly figuratively. Everyone knew what Garcia thought about Morgan. And Hotch himself was fairly young and good-looking. Rossi didn’t have much sex appeal at all, with the possible exception of his accent.

“Don’t worry, Garcia,” Rossi placed his hands in his pockets, “I had three ex-wives say the same thing.”

“Probably also explains why there aren’t any of Gideon,” Hotch muttered, “Right, we need to work out who was working here on those dates, or at least most of them. We also have to consider the possibility that we have more than one Unsub. This sort of planning takes a lot of time and practice.”

“I don’t get the blindfolds and the blanket.” Morgan shrugged.

“The bright lights,” JJ pointed, “The flash is brighter in those ones. If we were in darkness, we’d try and go back to sleep.”

“This has taken several years in the making,” Hotch glanced at one of him shirtless in an incredibly unflattering position, “But why release these pictures now?”

“Oh my word,” JJ just had a thought, looking back at the team with absolute fear, “This guy – they’ve been coming inside our homes for years. That photo – I brought those pajamas three months before I learnt I was pregnant. What if –“ her voice grew hoarse as she tried not to cry, “What if Will isn’t Henry’s father?”

“Don’t be silly,” Emily gripped her friend’s hands in hers, “of_ course_ Henry is Will’s child.” But the fact that this was even a possibility lingered in the air.

Hotch faced his team. “We need to look at all Quantico employees. Anyone that has worked here for at least six and a half years. It’s a start. We’ll probably find more information if we have a closer look. We need to work out what dates these photos were taken as well.”

As the team left, he pinched the bridge of his nose as he thought.

He was supposed to keep his team safe from harm. He was supposed to keep his son safe from harm.

But if an Unsub had been repeatedly abducting them from their homes, then that meant Hotch had failed in both.

The partner smirked as he sat in the break room.

He had this in the bag. His resentment, anger and jealously boiled up inside him and he had sent the photographs when he had decided he had made enough. His accomplice was at college at the moment, but when the partner’s shift was over, he decided he would pick him up.

Then they would get onto the next stage of their plan.

Once the team was nice and traumatized, completely on edge, he would set about with murder.

Not that he had told his accomplice his whole plan. Oh, no. He’d seen the way his accomplice treated that woman. Brushing her long, dark hair and soothing her, like she was some large doll. Personally, he preferred the blonde mother.

The partner firmly believed that women were one of two categories. Either they were like his mother or his sister; polite and kind and well-behaved, caregivers and as clean as anything. The blonde mother was perfect in his eyes. When he had first taken her, she had worn sweet, blue-and-white pajamas. In his opinion, she looked just like the Madonna that night.

Whereas the technical analyst was different, he told himself now as he frowned. A slut that got herself arrested, one that didn’t care for her parents on their final night alive. He’d heard the way she flirted with the jock. If she wanted to do everything he just knew she wanted with him, then they’d just get married, if they were sensible. She was just like his girlfriend; someone who would love him and leave him for someone else, he was sure of it.

Of course, the partner did not realize how twisted and unnatural his views on women were. People with Madonna-Whore complex don’t. They have no idea how disgusting they are, which of course leads back to narcissism.

This was what made Emily Prentiss so strange in his mind. She had slept with a man she was not married to, that Ian Doyle. Unlike his accomplice, the fact that Emily had been doing this to save people did not occur to him. No, in his opinion this meant Emily was marked for death.

Why, exactly? Why her and not the technical analyst? Perhaps it was because when the partner looked at Emily, whether from afar or when he had her in his clutches, he always felt something when he stared at her. If the mother was angel cake, sweet and delectable, then Emily was devil’s food cake, a strong temptation that he knew was wrong.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Seeing that it was his accomplice, he answered immediately.

“Hey,” he knew he shouldn’t use his phone on company property, but he didn’t care right now.

“Hey Basil,” his accomplice spoke from the other end, “I might need to be picked up a little early.”

“Why?” Basil leaned forward, a little worried, “Is something wrong?”

His accomplice shook his head, even though he knew his uncle couldn’t see him. “No, I just wanted more time to prepare.”

Basil gave a small smile. “Okay, son, I’ll see if I can leave early. Meet you on the courtyard.”

**2.37pm**

Hotch took another look at the many, many uncomfortable photos. On Reid’s timeline, there was a noticeable gap after his abduction by Hankel. Reid’s drug use came to the forefront of Hotch’s mind. The Unsub had known about it. Or perhaps he was showing some remorse, like the gap where JJ was pregnant.

There had also been a small flash drive in a hidden compartment at the bottom of the box. It hadn’t been until Hotch had lifted the box up to see if he could find any more evidence that he had noticed. A couple of minutes later, Hotch held this inside an evidence bag as he made his way to Garcia.

She was murmuring to herself frantically and twisting her pencils and knickknacks in her hands. When she saw Hotch, she asked him immediately, still unnerved, “Should I get a new security system?”

“Depends,” Hotch placed the flash drive on the table, “this was at the bottom of the box.”

“Oh my word,” Garcia whimpered, her shoulders sagging, “Sir, if I see you naked on this, what do I do?”

“Just do your best, Garcia,” Hotch replied. He felt the same way inside as she was all over. The main difference was that he was trying his best to remain strong. They may be about to see their co-workers in horrific conditions.

Or worse, themselves.

On the flash drive was a video. It was set up looking into what seemed to be a large, dark building. The walls were wooden and there was evidence of a loft above, so it was presumably a barn. The mattress sat in the middle of the room, behind a photo studio backdrop.

A person moved in front of the camera from behind, inspecting his handiwork. To Hotch and Garcia’s dismay, the Unsub was wearing a balaclava. He turned around and made a motioning moment with his fingers to someone off-screen. Faint noises were heard and a second voice asked an inaudible question. But the two agents heard enough to know that the voice was high-pitched.

“He has an accomplice.” Hotch murmured.

Then they heard sound of something being dragged across the floor. The man shouted, “You’ll get it dirty! It’s brand new!” The accomplice argued in a soft voice. The man gave a hefty sigh and walked out of sight. Seconds later, the camera was picked up by the accomplice and focused on the Unsub behind them.

Now the agents could see the back of a small van or a large car, doors wide open. Something lay on the floor. Looking closer, they noticed that it was a blue sleeping bag. The Unsub was crouching down, unzipping it as he waved his accomplice away.

“Get the tape!” he hissed and the accomplice walked around to the mattress. They picked up a roll of gaffer tape with their other hand. The visual was only for a second, but the two agents saw that the hand was white, small and clean. They stepped out of the way as the agents saw which one of the team the Unsub had just abducted.

“Reid,” Garcia gasped as his skinny frame was dragged along by the arms to the mattress.

The accomplice set the camera down and knelt some way off. The Unsub leaned over Reid’s chest and wound the tape around his wrists. Then he passed the roll to the right of the camera, towards the accomplice.

The Unsub soon took the camera back and then spoke as he walked around Reid’s semi-conscious form. “You see, agents,” he whispered, “none of you can beat me. You’re supposed to look for bad guys? I’ve been right under your nose and you never even realized it.” He gave a small chuckle. “This little bookworm is a real treat, I can tell you. Always keeps the same routine for everything. Even how many pencils he has in his bedside drawer.”

The Unsub knelt down in front of the mattress, placing the video camera down and picking up his Polaroid. “Smile for the birdie, bookworm.” He took a picture from a few feet back, showing Reid on his side. Reid stirred slightly. The Unsub stepped back as he murmured something to his accomplice.

The Unsub picked up the video camera and held it away slightly, only showing half of the mattress. The accomplice then threw a green woolen blanket over the hostage and hurriedly stepped away from sight. The video camera turned back to show Reid fully. Only his head and his bound wrists were visible and he murmured as he dug his head into the mattress. The sound of the Polaroid whirred again. The accomplice had taken a photo.

“Pathetic runt isn’t he?” the Unsub sneered. “All that knowledge and he doesn’t even know that he should check his milk.”

A small chuckle came from the left. As Reid moved under the blanket again, the Unsub hastily instructed his accomplice, “Quick, quick! He’s waking up! Dose him again! Use the needle this time.” Yet again the video camera moved to the right so all they could see was the right half of Reid’s slowly moving form. There was a muffled screaming and the agent jerked a little before going very still again. They handed the camera back to the accomplice as it was promptly turned it off.

Garcia had no words. She had gripped both ends of her pencil so hard that it had nearly snapped in two. Hotch was struggling to keep calm. The whole ordeal only took about ten minutes but that image of Reid at the mercy of those people would haunt them forever.

“He’s taunting us,” Hotch finally said, “He cares about his accomplice; wouldn’t let us see them. The small hands – it could be a woman. Or a boy. Most likely the latter.”

There was a lingering silence as Hotch looked down at Garcia, who could only stare at the screen with fear and horror.

“We have to tell Reid, don’t we?” Garcia wiped a tear from her eye as she sniffled.

Hotch seemed despondent. “We have to.”

He thought about the man’s reaction in the video. It seemed very different from his profile of the Unsub. Perhaps that was the submissive partner who wrote the poems and placed perfume in the envelopes. The dominant appeared angry with them, maybe jealous. Had he been someone who had wanted to join but had turned down?

His stomach churned as he thought of Reid, drugged, alone and at this guy’s mercy.

Of all of them at the man’s mercy.

**2pm**

In the bullpen, the team were gathered about the table as Hotch walked in. Garcia had already stood by the screen, remote in hand. None of the agents had sat down.

“I found a flash drive at the bottom of the box. On it was a video sent by our Unsub of one of the team being photographed.” Hotch went straight to the point.

“Which one of us?” Emily asked, voice shaking.

“Reid.” Hotch answered instantly. No use beating about the bush.

Reid went pale. “When – when was –“

“There wasn’t a date.” Garcia told him, the arm that held the remote swinging back and forth in nervousness.

Hotch looked Reid in the eye, being as gentle as he could given the circumstances. “Reid, I promise you that there was no sexual or physical abuse involved.” Reid crossed his arms defensively and looked at the ground. He obviously didn’t feel much better. Hotch glanced around at the rest of the team. “Unfortunately, we shall have to – re-watch the tape to search for clues.”

Then he faced the youngest agent again. “Reid?” The doctor raised his head sharply. “If you feel as if you can’t watch this, I won’t force you.”

“Yeah, I – err –“ Reid seemed completely vulnerable. Then he turned and walked out. The team saw him walk into Hotch’s office and sit down on the couch. It was clear Reid wanted to be left alone for the meantime.

“Right,” Hotch groaned, as they sat down, “play the tape, Garcia.”

He would have given anything to not let them see this, but they needed to. When the nightmarish film was up, there was silence while everybody thought.

After what seemed like forever, JJ raised her voice. “I think the –injection was possibly given so that if Spence was aware, he’d write this off as a nightmare concerning Hankel.”

No-one answered.

Then Morgan said, “We can tell from these photos that our Unsub is a misogynist. Very likely a coward. The females aren’t tied up in some of them –“

“- but we’re tied up in every one.” Hotch finished. Profiles were difficult enough. But one where the victims were themselves on multiple occasions was beyond words.

Then Hotch addressed the group. “Our Unsub has to have been working here for at least six and a half years. He has access to a van and somewhere isolated. From the structure of that building, I would perhaps say a barn. He can’t live that far from Quantico, as he very likely has a job here or knows our routines well enough to be undetected. He cares for his accomplice, since he won’t let them be seen on camera. But we worked out enough to know that his submissive partner is likely a boy, possibly related. The place where he holds – where his operation is based must be within a few miles of Quantico. Garcia, create a visual map and find out what you can about the employees that would know our shifts.”

“Yes, boss.” Garcia took the flash drive and walked out of the room.

Hotch carried on speaking.

“The dominant partner is a narcissist. That much we’ve been able to gather.”

JJ sat up in her seat and gave her opinion on the subject. “But the submissive partner – the boy – may not have had a female influence. Maybe his mother died or left the dominant partner. If the dominant Unsub says that women are either angels or tramps, it’s more likely the latter. Chances are that we were the first women he has had close contact with.”

“We know more about the submissive than the dominant,” Rossi spoke aloud, “They act out the same views on women. A child copying his parent would tell him that he agrees with his views, but he’s confused since he doesn’t have narcissism.”

“So we may have a father and son team,” Emily summarized, “and the mother left when the son was very young.”

“Or maybe the dominant Unsub is the boy’s caretaker,” Hotch put forward, “and while the submissive might still be an orphan, the dominant’s significant other left him. We could be looking at an uncle, cousin or maybe even brothers with a large age gap.”

“The affection he seems to give to JJ,” Morgan told them, “indicates that since she’s a parent, he needs to protect her. Calling Emily ‘my dear’ could be connected. I’d say it’s more probable that the submissive wrote the letters.”

“Does the partner know he sent them, though?” JJ asked.

“Likely,” Hotch answered, “A stranger in the grounds would raise suspicion. But it’s not clear if the dominant knew the contents of the letters. The gel pen – the submissive is quite young. It’s extremely likely that the submissive partner was a preteen or in his early teens when the plan started.” He thought for a second. “The video was taken before Reid had his hair cut. I’d say that was probably sometime in summer 2010. The hand was only on camera for a second, but that was enough to tell me that it belonged to someone young.”

“I can’t tell if the voice was broken yet,” Rossi frowned as he tried to go over the video in his mind, “But if the submissive was around eighteen to twenty two years ago, that means he was thirteen to fifteen when this began. Old enough to perhaps feel attracted to women, but still young enough to desire a mother.”

“The dominant partner is definitely a lot older,” Hotch agreed, “He’s likely the submissive’s caretaker. He would work here or know our schedules. It’s possible he works in a low-paid or at least manual job here. Behind a till, security work, groundskeeper, air traffic controller. Somebody we never even notice but knows us.”

A few seconds later Morgan got up.

“Going to check on the kid,” he explained, leaving the bullpen.

Hotch looked around the table at the remaining agents. Emily looked pained. JJ had her head in her hands in despair. Rossi shifted uncomfortably.

“Guys,” Hotch dropped his stern expression for the moment, “We need to focus. We’re better than him. We won’t let him win.”

“I don’t know if I can go home,” JJ raised her head, “I need to call Will. Tell him to get Henry out until we find the Unsub.”

“That seems like a good idea,” Hotch answered, “I’ll do the same with Jack. The Unsub sent the pictures for a reason. They gave us two days to open that box. He could have struck in our homes, but he didn’t.”

“Should we keep surveillance on our homes?” Emily asked.

“Not sure,” Hotch looked like he was about to chew his lip, “He’s probably guessed we might not go home tonight. I understand how paranoid you all are. I am, too. But we will find him.”

**9.37pm**

Emily had gone home, still worried about what might happen.

Reid had said he would come with her, as he was still reeling from the idea of the video. Emily wondered if he should watch it, to get his fear of the unknown out of the way. But she didn’t know. She wouldn’t force him.

“I’m going to make a drink,” she told him when they got in, “Coffee?”

“One and a quarter teaspoons decaffeinated coffee, no sugar, forty-eight milliliters of milk,” Reid mumbled as he sat down on Emily’s couch and picked a book out from his bag, “I’ll be fine.”

But she doubted he would be.

Neither of them saw the two men already inside her home, waiting in the bedroom. Once the older one saw her enter the kitchen, he gestured for his younger friend to move.

The submissive did so, feeling for the dart gun on his belt. He didn’t want to do this. He knew his caretaker had something cruel in mind for Emily. Otherwise why would he say her in particular?

He just hoped he wouldn’t fail.

Emily heard a soft banging from the living room after she poured her cup. Turning her head, she placed the kettle back. Frowning, she made her way closer.

“Reid?” Emily asked, walking out to the hallway, coffee cup still in her hand. As she entered the living room, she was greeted with two strangers looking back.

Emily dropped her coffee cup in shock, letting the warm liquid seep around her feet. But she didn’t care.

The man standing to the right, holding a handgun on her, was tall and stocky. He had a broad frame and was dressed in a shirt and dungarees. He was clean-shaven and Emily guessed his age to be mid to late forties. The Unsub had slightly grayish hair, but Emily couldn’t tell from first glance if it was simply a very light blonde, prematurely gray or salt-and-pepper. He was scowling at her, cocking the gun.

The accomplice, as the profile suggested, was much younger and skinnier, maybe in his late teens or early twenties. His clothes were casual; a t-shirt and trousers, but very neat. At present he was forcing Reid onto his knees. Reid had one wrist twisted behind his back and a hand was held tight over his mouth. Reid was trying with his other hand to pull the accomplice away.

“Hello Emily,” the Unsub took a step forward, “We finally meet in a room with perfect lighting and you’re not sprawled semi-conscious on the floor.” He gave a small, nasty smile. “But you see me all the time and you never noticed.”

“What do you want?” Emily demanded, trying to remain calm under intense pressure.

The Unsub gave a low laugh. “One last photo session, shall we say? It’s all well and good taking a picture of my subjects when they’re sleeping, confused, bewildered. But it’s another experience altogether when my models are terrified, fearing for their life.”

Emily looked at Reid and the accomplice. Reid’s scared eyes stared right back at her. The accomplice seemed conflicted. Of course he was; he was the submissive, the obedient one.

All of Emily’s training kicked in and she faced the Unsub in the eye. “Please – there has to be a reason why you did this. If we knew why, then maybe I could understand.”

He scoffed. “Not now, Emily,” he told her as if telling off a child, “I think we need to take a little ride.”

He shot. But instead of a bullet, Emily felt a small prick on her palm. Looking at her hand, she saw a dart sticking out. As her vision grew woozy and her legs wobbled underneath her, Emily fell onto the couch cushions.

The last sound she heard before she fell asleep was Reid’s muffled cry of anguish.


	5. Chapter 5

**Quantico**  
**6.30am**

Rossi arrived at Quantico early that morning. He hadn’t been able to sleep easily. Whenever he drifted off, all he could think of were those photos, that video of Reid helpless. True, there had only been one picture of Rossi and it didn’t seem as if the Unsub was that interested in him, but the fact that his teammates had suffered was agony.

When Rossi entered the room, he noticed that he hadn’t been the only one that had come by early. Hotch, Garcia, JJ and Morgan were all here, all as miserable and broken inside as he was.

“Morning,” Rossi mumbled, sitting down at one of the desks instead of his office. Being alone right now would be too much for any of them.

Struggling to find words, he looked around the room. Then he decided on saying, “Did Henry and Jack go someplace safe?”

JJ nodded. “I told Will to take Henry and go to his mom’s house. They’re okay.”

Hotch answered, “Jack’s at Jessica’s house. Still couldn’t sleep, though.”

“You and me both.” Rossi murmured. Then a thought came to him. “Where’s Emily and the kid?”

“I tried calling them,” Morgan said, “They didn’t answer.”

Hotch wasn’t sure if it was instinct or concern about the Unsubs, but he started walking towards the door. “I think I should check up on them. Reid went to Emily’s home, didn’t he?”

“Yeah,” JJ got up from her chair as well, “I’ll come with you.”

As they got to the doors, Hotch informed Garcia, “Check up employees. We need to work fast.”

He didn’t need to say that a second time. Garcia immediately leapt up and headed to the computer room. She just hoped she wasn’t too late.

**6.50am**

Hotch opened Emily’s front door. It hadn’t been locked. Hotch had been to enough crime scenes to know that this was bad news.

Entering with his gun drawn, he saw that there had definitely been a commotion. A broken coffee cup lay on the floor. Beside the couch, Reid’s bag lay open on the floor, the contents scattered. His book lay half-open on the floor.

“JJ,” Hotch instructed, “Call forensics.” JJ entered and she tried not to panic at the scene. Hotch told her, “I’ll check the kitchen.”

As he made his way forward, he had another look at the broken coffee cup. There was a pool of dried coffee all over the floor, but he could work out the outlines of two shoes. Emily had been startled, he told himself.

Once in the kitchen, he repeated his thought to JJ, who was now looking over the table nearby.

“Startled?” JJ asked, as Hotch examined the scene with his eyes.

“Yes,” he repeated, “Emily comes in. The Unsubs are already here.”

“Both of them?”

“They’d need to overpower two people,” Hotch played out the scene in his mind’s eye, “Emily was in the kitchen. Made herself a cup of coffee. See, there’s two cups; she hadn’t poured the second when she heard a noise.”

“A noise?” JJ came up to him.

“The Unsubs had come in the lounge. Possibly in the apartment already. Reid drops his book on the floor in surprise. The Unsubs work fast – Emily just hears the book dropping. If she heard shouting, she wouldn’t have taken the cup with her. It’s possible that they threatened or silenced Reid so he wouldn’t alert Emily.” Hotch turned to the lounge doorway. He didn’t want to say the next words, but he knew that he needed to. “She drops the cup, it seeps around her shoes. A few moments pass. Then Emily is knocked out. See? The stains skid over the floor.”

Hotch walked closer to the couch, working out the distance. “Her head falls onto the couch. She’s unconscious. Then they take them.”

“Where?” JJ folded her arms.

“That’s what we have to find out,” Hotch murmured, “Chances are that if they wanted to kill them, they’d have done it here. They’ve shown off so far. I’ll call Garcia, tell her to check her inbox.”

“There’s a diner across the street,” JJ remembered from when Emily had taken her there for her birthday, “I think their CCTV would pick up something. It points at the fire escape.”

“OK,” Hotch told her, “we’d best get back to Quantico.”

**7.08am**

Emily’s eyelids slowly opened. She was fully aware that she was lying on that wretched mattress again. How many times had the Unsub taken her back here? Ten? Twenty? It didn’t bear thinking about.

Instead of gaffer tape this time, however, her hands were cuffed behind her. She was lying on her side, hair hanging over her face. There were professional studio lights on either side of her, lighting her up.

“Move it; I want a better close-up.” She heard the Unsub tell his accomplice. The small figure approached and pulled the hair from her face.

As he stood back, Emily asked, her voice barely more than a whisper, “Why are you doing this?”

The Unsub knelt down in front of her and took a close-up of her face with the Polaroid camera. “Simple,” he explained, standing up and wandering around her for the right shot, “I get ignored by everyone at Quantico.”

“What –“ she managed to gasp, squinting as the flash hurt her eyes, “ – what job?”

“You hear that?” he asked the accomplice, “They know so little about me, even though I see them every week. I’m an air traffic controller, Agent Prentiss.”

Suddenly it made sense. How someone would know their routines and when they would come back from cases.

Then suddenly Emily remembered.

“Reid?” she shuffled on the mattress as she tried to sit up, but she was too exhausted.

“He’s OK.” The accomplice talked for the first time. His voice was unusually high.

“Just one more,” the Unsub moved back and then took the last picture before he turned to the accomplice, “Send them to Agent Hotchner’s house. They’ll find out soon enough.”

“You let us go!” Emily shouted back, moving her legs to regain movement in them.

The Unsub moved forward and was about to slap her when, to Emily’s surprise, the accomplice grabbed him by the elbow and glared at him harshly. “A gentleman does not strike a lady,” he growled.

_No,_ Emily thought to herself, _you just strip them naked, tie them up and take photos of them._ But there was definitely a distinct difference in personality. She remembered what Hotch had put forward. Was it possible that the accomplice copied his partner’s misogynistic behavior, but didn’t actually believe the Madonna-Whore complex itself? At least, not in its entirety.

As the Unsub turned and walked out of a nearby door, the accomplice set about turning the lights off, leaving Emily alone with the young man in the darkness.

She held back a sob as she whispered, letting herself beg, “Please don’t hurt me.” Emily didn’t want to have to resort to this, but if she had any chance of surviving, she believed that the younger Unsub would be able to help.

She couldn’t see the boy’s face, but she could guess that he was numb to what was happening around him. Then she asked, “What does he want?”

The boy waited a few seconds before he spoke. “Uncle Basil doesn’t like women, my dear.”

Uncle Basil. So Emily was getting somewhere. “Where’s Reid? Where’s my partner?”

Before the boy could respond, Emily heard muffled banging coming from someplace above her. She called out, heart thumping, “Reid?”

“He’s fine,” the boy said, “He wasn’t supposed to be there. We just wanted you.”

“Why me?” Emily asked, trying her best to sit up. It was difficult with her hands cuffed.

“Uncle Basil said I should. I’m not sure what he wants.” He paused. “I think – I think Uncle Basil plans on hurting you.”

“Why do you say that?” Emily tried hard not to think about why.

“Because you’re unnatural,” the boy was reciting from memory, she could tell, “Because you’re kind and helpful, like a woman should be. But you slept with a man you were not married to. You used your sexuality to trick him.”

_Ian Doyle_, Emily told herself.

She tried another tactic. “You do realize that I was only sleeping with him to get him to reveal his plans. I did that to save people.”

“I know you did,” the boy was obviously unused to voicing his own opinion, “Which makes you different. Uncle Basil said women are angels or whores.”

“Uncle Basil is wrong,” Emily was now desperate to make him help her, “You don’t think of me in either category, do you?”

The boy paused again. Emily tried playing her trump card. “That’s because Uncle Basil’s views are wrong. There are many, many different types of people. We all have our positives and our faults. That doesn’t make me bad.”

Then she asked, “Why does he take these pictures? Why did he send them?”

“Uncle Basil took them because he feels angry,” the boy sniffed, “Because the BAU are the success he wanted. He also wanted to work with the FBI, but found himself as a traffic controller.”

_Air traffic controller,_ Emily told herself, _no wonder he knew our routine. He’d take us after exhausting cases or long plane rides._ “But that doesn’t explain the photos.” She pointed out.

The boy told her, “He wants to humiliate you. He wants to show that he’s better than all of you. That you’re his playthings. But I’m kinder to you. I brush your hair, I soothe you when you’re asleep. You’re a family and I never had that. I only had Uncle Basil.”

The door opened again and light poured in. the Unsub – Uncle Basil – now stood in the doorway, a nasty-looking pipe wrench in his hand.

“Car’s ready, Emily. Time to go.”

As the boy watched his uncle take Emily out, he excused himself, saying that he needed the toilet. But when he got upstairs, he instead opened the door to the cupboard room where Reid was held; the boy’s old childhood bedroom.

He quickly told the petrified agent, “Don’t worry. When we come back, I’m going to let you go. There are scissors in the top drawer if the others come here before I do. Uncle Basil doesn’t want to hurt you. You were just there. He’s taking Emily to the lake some way north of here. When we get back, he’s going to get drunk and then I can drive you back. I – I don’t love Uncle Basil any more.”

**Quantico**  
**8.08am**

“I think I’ve found him, sir,” Garcia swallowed as he gabbled to Hotch through her headset, the rest of the team in the bullpen.

“Go ahead, Garcia,” Hotch folded his arms. Since coming back, he had had to tell the others about what they’d found. JJ was at the diner across from Emily’s flat, to see if the CCTV had noticed anything.

“Basil Garrett,” Garcia read the information on screen, “Air traffic controller. Aged forty-three, started here in summer 2005. Lists his hobbies as photography and puzzle-solving. His shifts tie in with some of our most frustrating or long-distance cases.”

He sounded a good suspect, Rossi told himself. Then he asked Garcia, “You certain about him, Garcia?”

“Ah-ha,” she replied, “In 1987, his first girlfriend left him for someone else. He had a couple more girlfriends after that, but they all left him. No evidence of domestic violence, however. But here’s the clincher, guys; in 1998, he adopted his six-year-old nephew Alan after his mother died of cancer. According to Basil, his sister was an angel from above; kind, pleasant and caring.” She then gasped. “Poor kid; it says here that he was bullied in school because he was top of most of his subjects. He tried to kiss a girl in third grade, said she was his girlfriend. She was just a kid that showed him affection. Sending you a picture now.”

When the photo came through, Morgan’s eyebrows flew up. “Looks like a mini Emily.”

“Thought so too,” Garcia typed away, “Basil lives in a converted barn about two miles south of Quantico. Alan goes to college, excellent grades but has seen a psychiatrist on and off regularly since third grade. He says that he misses his mom and is too scared to get a girlfriend because of ‘Uncle Basil’. His whole life has revolved around school and obeying his uncle.”

“Why would Garrett attack us personally?” Rossi asked.

“We can figure that out later,” Hotch then asked Garcia, “Do you have Garrett’s address?”

“Yeah. Sending it now.”

Just as Garcia did so, ending her call, JJ’s number flashed on screen. Hotch answered instantly.

“I looked at the security footage,” JJ said, “There definitely is something.”

“Okay, have Garcia take a look at it.” Hotch instructed her.

Within a minute, the footage had been sent through to the screen in the bullpen. The footage, taken at quarter to ten the previous evening, had been taken twelve feet from Emily’s apartment building. But the team could still make out figures on the fire escape.

A tall, burly figure – presumably Basil – was dragging something under his arms. Emily, Hotch realized. A smaller, skinnier figure – Alan – had something in his hand and was slowly pushing Reid in front. The agent’s hands were behind his head. They couldn’t make out his face from so far away, but the team guessed that Reid was terrified.

When Basil got to the back of his car, he opened the doors and pushed Emily inside. When Reid and Alan finished descending the fire escape, Basil grabbed Reid by his skinny arms and started throwing him inside as well, before slamming the doors shut.

The car drove away and then the footage stopped.

“It’s most likely that Basil wanted Emily,” Hotch summarized, “They didn’t expect Reid there. They couldn’t risk leaving him.”

“Why Emily?” Morgan asked.

“That’s the thing,” Rossi pondered, “The Madonna-Whore complex. Basil has a terrible record with women. The only one he seems to have shown any positive emotion towards was his sister.”

“JJ and Garcia,” Morgan thought aloud, “The Madonna or the Whore.” He felt awful saying that about his baby girl, but that was what Basil believed. “Emily’s neither. She doesn’t fit with Basil’s perception.”

“And Alan would have guessed that his uncle was wrong about women.” Hotch started to walk out of the room, the other two following him towards the elevator. “He shows Emily affection. Maybe Basil doesn’t want that and wants to show his nephew that he’s the only one whose opinion matters.”

“And what about Reid?” Morgan asked as they entered the elevator.

“He’s just like Alan,” Hotch pressed the button and the doors closed, “Young, studious, well-behaved. Basil obviously cares for Alan, since he didn’t allow him to be seen on camera. He may be using Reid to force Emily to co-operate but may not plan on hurting him.”

“I just hope you’re right.” Morgan sighed.

**8.38am**

Emily was now in the back of Basil Garrett’s car. While there were windows in the front, the trunk, where she was held, didn’t have any. It was the perfect vehicle for a kidnapper.

She was still cuffed, pushed at the very back. She didn’t like the look of any of the items locked in here with her; rope, a shovel, a map of Virginia and a reel of gaffer tape.

Emily had seen enough serial killers’ vehicles to know that this was a very bad sign.

Alan was sitting on the back seat, trying his best to read a book. Emily turned her head and peered over the edge to try and see what he was reading. Then she noticed the bookmark of five dried flowers.

“Those flowers are the same as the perfumes in the envelopes, aren’t they?” she asked him. Alan looked at her out of the corner of his eye, perhaps too afraid of Basil to say anything. He then went back to reading his book.

Emily shuffled into a sitting position and asked, “Why those flowers?”

Alan mumbled, “They’re the flowers Mommy gave me before –“ he sniffed, “I – I had two of each, ever since I was six.”

“What happened to the other set?” Emily asked, curious.

“I gave them to Miss Jareau,” Alan whispered, “I put them in her dressing gown.”

Emily felt strangely touched. She asked him, “Why?”

Alan finally faced her. “Because she’s an angel. She’s the mommy I wanted after mine died.”

Then Emily asked him, “How do you know so much about us?”

“Uncle Basil asked about the team and the cases when he was helping the plane land. He asked the other staff members in the break room. I like you, Emily. I like JJ and Aaron and Spencer as well.”

It was scary how young Alan sounded when he spoke. So she tried to ask, “And everyone else?”

Alan paused. “I found Dave’s books interesting, but he’s sort of like the uncle of the team.” Emily didn’t need to ask why that was unnerving for Alan. “Derek’s just like the boys who used to bully me. He’s big and shouts and scares me. And Penelope is a whore.”

“She’s not,” Emily shook her head, “Penelope’s a great help and she only flirts with Morgan.”

“Uncle Basil said that if she really loved him then they’d get married.” The way Alan spoke showed Emily that he was copying what his uncle was saying, but may not believe that himself. She could tell the boy had doubts.

“Please,” Emily begged him, “don’t hurt me.”

“Uncle Basil says you’re a whore.”

“Do you think that?” Emily retorted.

There was silence as Alan considered this. As the car drove off the road and down a dirt path, Alan gave a low whisper.

"No.”

**8.46am**

Arriving at the converted barn, Hotch looked around him for any sign that Basil and Alan were still here.

There was no car in the driveway. Nor was the door open. Heading to the large side door, he found it was still open.

“Over here!” he shouted. Rossi, Morgan and JJ ran to him. Once the door was open, the four of them shone their flashlights and held their guns ready.

The floor was concrete, with what appeared to look like a photography studio. With a jolt in his stomach, Hotch recognized it as the one from the video. The mattress was still on the floor, stained and sagging. The camera sat on a gray plastic chair and a few Polaroids lay all over the floor.

Morgan gingerly picked one up. Emily was on the mattress, thankfully clothed, looking at the camera with a scared expression. This photo, Morgan was sure, would haunt him for the rest of his life.

“She was here,” he told the others, “Should we try upstairs?”

“Yes,” Hotch muttered as he picked up another Polaroid, “But be careful. We don’t know what they may have planned.”

As his team-mates went up the stairs and out through a door, Hotch held the other Polaroids in his hands.

Three more were of Emily, but a fourth was somewhere else. It was somewhere dark, but Hotch noticed that it was the back of the car. The doors were wide open and the flash lit up the inside.

Emily wasn’t in this photo, unless that was her stuffed inside the blue button-up duvet cover. Reid was sat on the right, looking scared. He had his hands cuffed behind him to the back of the seat on his right and all he could do was sit there.

But what puzzled Hotch was that Alan was in the photo. He was standing behind the door and looked at the camera with a sullen expression. Perhaps Basil hadn’t meant to include him, but he did anyway.

Clearly Alan did not want any part of this plan.

**8.50am**

Emily had no idea what Basil was planning. But she did know that it was a very complex plan from what she could see.

As soon as they had stopped, Basil had released her from the seat and dragged her out to the lake beside them. Alan had taken out a folded red short-sleeved dress from under his seat and held it in his hands, standing beside his uncle.

Basil snapped at Emily, “Put it on.”

She stood still for a moment, trying to comprehend what he wanted.

Basil frowned. “Put it on, or I will put it on you,” he barked.

Emily asked, trying not to show fear, “Can I have some privacy, please?”

Basil snorted and walked back to the car. Alan was still here, but he looked at the ground, blushing. When Emily had finished, her clothes lay in a heap on the wet grass. Basil came up and looked her up and down. Emily only had the dress on, without any underwear or shoes.

“Just like the whore you are,” Basil sneered, “Sleeping with Ian Doyle when you weren’t married.”

“I had to,” Emily glared at him, “To save people.”

“Your virginity is the most precious thing a woman can have,” Basil argued, “and you threw it away.”

“I didn’t want to have sex with him,” Emily tried making him see reason but she knew it was useless. She only needed to bide time for her team to come.

Because she knew they would. They’d have gone to her apartment by now. And she had faith in her team.

“You tempt me, Emily,” Basil moved closer and she could smell the coffee on his breath, “You’re not an angel, so you must be a devil.”

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her to the lake, Emily digging her feet in the ground the whole time.

Alan just watched before he sadly made his way behind them. He didn’t want her to die. She was proof that his vile uncle’s views were wrong.

Except that Alan had never been allowed to voice his opinion before.

He wondered if he could do this now.

**8.52am**

Upstairs, the team were kicking down the many doors of the first floor. Basil had quite a few rooms, each apparently filled with various items.

Alan’s bedroom was the only one that seemed reasonably clean. A bed with college textbooks neatly lined up on a desk and his duvet tucked in at the edges.

After a dozen small rooms, some the size of cupboards, Morgan then called out Reid’s name.

The response was a faint banging noise from the end of the loft. Morgan slowly pushed the door open, shining his flashlight inside. The room was barely big enough to swing a cat.

Shining the flashlight down in front of him, Morgan instantly saw the youngest agent stuffed between the wall and a chest of drawers that took up half of the room. Reid’s hands were behind him and he had tape over his mouth and ankles. He blinked rapidly as the light shone in his eyes.

“He’s here!” Morgan shouted to the others, crouching down and gently pulling the tape from his friend’s mouth. “It’s gonna be okay, kid,” he tried reassuring him, “We’re getting you out of here.”

“There’s a pair of scissors in the top drawer,” Reid managed to say to Morgan as the other agents’ footsteps became louder, “Morgan, where’s Emily?”

“She’s left the barn.” Morgan explained, pushing the chest of drawers out of the way and leafing through the top one to look for scissors.

Reid frowned in concentration as his friends helped him up and out into the hallway, “The Unsub’s taking her to the lake. The – the accomplice said so.”

Hotch nodded, “We need to go.”

As Morgan and Reid stayed behind to wait for forensics and the others drove away, JJ suggested, “It’s clear that Alan wants to help Emily. Basil just doesn’t want to kill her; he wants to show her off, to say that he’s better than everybody else.”

“Alan just wants Emily safe,” Hotch agreed as the car made its way to the lake, “He knows that his uncle is wrong. Maybe we could use that.”

**9.10am**

At the lake, Emily had tried her best to resist Basil, but he had pulled her through the mud. She wouldn’t stop screaming and struggling and now her feet and the hem of her dress were caked in mud and grass.

“Shut up!” Basil shouted at her, slapping her across the face. He then looked up at Alan, who was simply looking back. “You could help me, you useless twit!”

Basil eventually dragged Emily by her arm and her hair to the shallowest part of the lake-bed and kicked her so that she would fall down. As soon as she was, he leaned over her, using the gaffer tape to tie her hands to her sides. Then he pulled out the rope and tied her ankles, before hooking the rope through a cement block hidden in the long grass. He sawed halfway through the rope as soon as he had finished.

Then Emily realized what he wanted. He was going to drown her. But not just drown her; the rope would give way and eventually she’d be loose, floating on the surface of the lake as a hideous parody of Ophelia in the water.

Alan had run away. Was he going for help or was he ashamed to see this? Emily hoped it was the former.

Emily tried her last tactic. Pleading with Basil, she asked, “Please, do one thing for me. Let Spencer Reid go.”

“I will, don’t worry,” Basil told her as he stood up and admired his handiwork. Then he crouched down again and started to lift the cement block.

But before he could throw the block in, there was a gunshot.

As Basil fell down, Emily saw Alan standing behind him, pistol in one hand and his book in the other. While the bullet had only hit Basil above the heart, he fell backwards into the water with a splash. A silent tear ran down Alan’s face as he struggled to hold himself together.

The team, having heard the commotion, had run into view. Alan slowly let the gun and book drop into the soft grass and turned to face them with dignity. As JJ helped untie Emily, Hotch read Alan his rights.

When Emily was free, she leaned onto JJ as the younger woman pulled her to her feet. Rossi picked up the gun and the book and noticed the bookmark sticking it. Pulling it out, he saw the cloth it was tied in. JJ, having seen it, swallowed as she recognized the cloth from her dressing gown.

“It’s fine, Emily,” JJ tried to comfort her as they made their way back, “You’re safe.”

“Reid?” Emily managed to ask.

JJ nodded. “He’s okay. Morgan’s with him.”

As Emily stood with JJ some way from both vehicles as Hotch radioed for assistance, she glanced at Alan in the back seat. He hung his head, despondent.

She just hoped he would get the help he needed.

**Quantico**  
**4.28pm**

When the case assessment had been completed, the box and poems stored in evidence and Emily and Reid had gone for medical examinations, Garcia walked into Hotch’s office.

“I got Basil Garrett’s medical records,” she held the file up, “he was impotent and had no sex drive. It seems that the closest thing he ever got to arousal is taking photographs.”

Hotch paused. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Well,” Garcia sighed, “Remember that JJ was a bit worried about –“

“Okay.” Hotch finished. Then he asked, “How is everyone?”

“I’m not too sure about Emily,” Garcia answered, “Rossi and Morgan are doing fine. JJ’s gone to get Henry. Reid’s writing out complicated mathematical equations, so I guess he’s feeling better.”

Hotch gave a quick smile. Then he asked Garcia, “You don’t feel scared, do you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Basil broke into our homes, several times over a period of seven years,” Hotch explained, “Are you – comfortable with going home tonight?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Garcia shrugged it off, then leaned forward, “Anyway, just in case, Morgan said he’d spend the night. On the couch.”

“So I guess you’re safe then?” Hotch asked her.

Garcia nodded and exited the office. “And I am _not_ a whore!” she giggled.


End file.
